Winter Greetings

Well, it's official--I'm a terribly inconsistent blogger. While I have been busy with projects and end-of-the-year holiday madness, I think another reason I haven't written anything here in a long time is that I, along with the garden, have gone dormant, at least in some regard. It would seem that winter is a good time for all living things to turn inward, to reflect, and to process everything that's been gathered over recent months.

On a side note...after becoming enthralled with the symbolism of trees, I found The Meaning of Trees: Botany History Healing Lore by Fred Hageneder at the library. I have retreated into the book during these dark, cold days. One of the most mesmerizing passages I've come across is, "The Welsh goddess of the hawthorn once walked the empty universe and her white track of hawthorn petals became the Milky Way." With the hawthorn on my mind lately, I now see hawthorns everywhere, when I never noticed them before. Their red fruits decorate the branches like fairy-sized ornaments. Isn't that how it often is? The world is full and vast...if only we knew what we were looking for, we might find it among us.

May you have a joyous holiday season, and may you indulge in winter's dormancy to emerge into a healthy and wondrous 2009.

Thoughts on the Hawthorn

Saturday I had the pleasure of attending a workshop presented by George Ella Lyon. I'm still digesting the material (perhaps more on the writing and discussion later). In the morning she shared a book called The Wisdom of Trees: Mysteries, Magic, and Medicine by Jane Gifford, which is based around the Celtic Ogham Alphabet and which attributes a tree to each moon of the year (a tree zodiac, if you will).

After the workshop, I did some brief searches about this intriguing idea. Here and here are two links that provide additional information. My point is not to focus on whether the Celtic tree calendar is based in truth or myth, but rather to consider the power of trees and our connection to them. My birth tree is the hawthorn, and there just happens to be one in my front yard. For the last two years a mockingbird has nested there. The hawthorn offers small white flowers in May and red, berry-like fruit through the winter.

I'm trying to figure out what is so special about a tree, aside from the obvious--that it gives food, shelter, oxygen--and I think, for me, it might be its physical presence, how it is rooted in the earth, grounded, sturdy, and at the same time reaching skyward, growing up and out, claiming the surrounding space. It is a model for how I'd like to live my life, connected to the past while being fully present in this moment.

Blackberry Lily, and a Correction

The blackberry lily seedpods have opened up, revealing the luscious seeds that look like blackberries (thus the plant's common name).

In September, I lamented the departure of the hummingbirds. Since then, I've spotted individual hummingbirds hovering around the feeder or the mouths of remaining flowers, the most recent sighting being Sunday. I think, each time, how rare and that surely it will be the last time this year. Odd how sometimes it takes time to recognize loss.

Yard of the Month

Our yard was named the neighborhood's yard of the month for October, a delightful recognition. With the gift certificate to the local nursery we received, I got some mums and pansies. I've never planted mums or pansies before, maybe because my gardening energy is usually spent by the time fall comes around. This year, the garden required very little maintenance so I had fun getting my hands dirty once more. The additional color really brightens up the garden beds.

Signs of Autumn

While I haven't actually caught the scent of the imminent season in the air yet, I'm taking note of its first indications.

It looks like the hummingbirds have left the area. I'm always caught surprised by their departure, wishing I could give them a proper send-off with hearty thanks for being such pleasant summer guests. Berries are ripening on the beautyberry and winterberry bushes, flushing with color. I can almost see the winterberry's blush deepen every time I look upon it. The bees and butterflies have lighted in a frenzy upon the rose-colored flowers of the aptly named Autumn Joy sedum.

Indoors, it's time again for watching football. And for a renewed desire for learning, for reading and for becoming more informed, for words, resplendent words. Yes, all signs that autumn is about to make its entrance.

Watership Down

I'm beginning to think I'm living in a fantasy world ruled by rabbits. Rabbits breed like, well, rabbits. They have no interest in the neighbor's traps. And why would they when their world is filled with luscious goodies? The guy who designed/installed our landscaping said I should consider them natural pruners. Surprisingly, though there seem to be more rabbits nestled into the neighborhood this year, the plants generally seem to be heartier and healthier than in previous years. I can only assume the garden is enjoying its natural pruning.

Secret Garden

I realized I haven't written about the garden recently, which is probably largely due to the fact I haven't done much work in the garden recently (because the garden hasn't needed much work recently). It's probably also because there are no "star" bloomers right now, no plants that draw attention away from all the others. But as I was sitting on the swing this evening, it dawned on me that the garden hurries on, even when I'm not noticing. As I've been enjoying fresh strawberries, reading on the swing, watching hummingbirds zipper and butterflies coast through the sky, chancing upon a praying mantis guarding the fuchsia in a hanging basket, it's been happening. Summer is marching to its inevitable end. The school buses have returned. The ornamental grasses are gathering their plumes. The sun puts on its nightly show earlier each evening. Here's to being mindful of the show.

Crocosmia

Krokos (saffron, in Greek) + osme (smell) = crocosmia, whose dried leaves apparently smell like saffron. I'll have to crush the dried leaves this winter and test this etymology.

The River Birch Revises Its Life

Sometimes disparate parts of my life come together in surprising ways. Or maybe not so surprising, since we humans seem inherently drawn to metaphor. We want to see connections. Maybe we even need such connections to survive.

This afternoon the guy who designed and developed much of our landscaping stopped by to take a look around. We had a look at the river birch, which has a few clumps that look distinctly different from the rest of the tree. These clumps have smaller, drier, more condensed leaf clusters. Upon closer investigation, Daniel determined these clumps belong to the original tree, the one with a root ball that came from a nursery. The rest of the tree--the healthier, larger part (that looks like the main tree now)--is actually from an offshoot that grew after being planted and adjusting to the soil.

Then this evening in Leatha's revision class, she pointed out that sometimes we must abandon the original impulse of the poem to find a truer, better poem--the real poem. What a challenge for most of us! Particularly if the original impulse has some nice language or images, if it looks like a real poem. Sometimes we can develop a poem only so far using the original impulse and thus must follow the offshoot that becomes the real poem.

I tell myself: remember the river birch.

Notes from the Garden in July

While I was outside grilling salmon (my first attempt at cooking fish at home--which turned out pretty well, by the way), I was delighted by the first hummingbird I've seen this season. The last couple years the hummingbirds have tended to show up at the end of summer, stopping by briefly to drill nectar from the last flowering wells before heading further south. Yesterday's bird darted around the crocosmia and hosta then darted away just as quickly. This morning I set out the nectar feeder with hopes of enticing the visitor to return and stay a while.

On another note, I'm once again being defeated by the Japanese beetles. Every year I battle them. Every year they win. They are especially vicious to our Harry Lauder's Walking Stick. I pick them off and drown them every evening, and last week I even broke down and sprayed the tree with insecticide. Still the beetles persist, eating away until only filigree vestiges of leaves remain. I know the Walking Stick looks best in winter--when it's naked and can show off its gnarled shape--but that doesn't mean it needs to be bare the whole year. My neighbor has resorted to trying the traps, even though there are reports that traps only draw more beetles to the area. Thus far, the beetles seem no worse, nor no better, than previous years. So I go on, my only satisfaction watching the little devils come to their end in a bucket of water.

A Garden's Labor

During my brief visit with my Dad, we went to the Boerner Botanical Gardens in Whitnall Park. It's been years since I've been to the gardens, which are one of the highlights of the Milwaukee county park system. Years ago, the park included a section with thousands and thousands of tulips, each year carefully planted according to various color schemes. Since it's well past tulip season, we didn't venture to that part of the park.

However, the roses were in their glory, as well as many of the perennials. Two specimens seared in my mind's eye were the alliums with their enormous flowering globes and the 'Sum and Substance' hosta with its massive leaves.

The garden's web site includes this bit of history:

Two federal programs having the greatest impact on Whitnall Park (and other parks as well) were the Civilian Conservation Corps, more commonly referred to as the CCC, and the Works Progress Administration, or the WPA.

And these days, much of the upkeep is at the hands of volunteers, so says Dad (who also reminds me the volunteer community is an essential vertebra in the backbone that is America's workforce). Thus I am reminded gardens and people go hand-in-hand; each shapes and cultivates the other.

Garden Revisited

The magnolia and catalpa of two weeks ago.

In the Garden

The backyard is heavy with the scent of magnolia blossoms. Briefly I feel drunk, swimming in the sweet smell and humid air.

The catalpa is flowering. This is the first year it has flowered. Small, white, trumpet-shaped, with some purple and yellow markings.

I snapped some pictures throughout the yard. O, I have many I want to post. It will be a while, though, as our main computer (which has the photo software) is temporarily unavailable. Sadly, the fan died Sunday.

Peony

Typing remains slow and frustrating. Perhaps not the best time to start a blog.

This difficulty began on Friday. I went into the garden early to beat the heat. Summer's switch was turned on early this year. 90s and high humidity already. After braiding some of the fading daffodil stems as my mother-in-law suggested, I decided to do some deadheading for a change of pace. Half way through pruning one of the peonies, I cut the edge of my pinkie with the garden shears. Odd that I didn't cry out, but instinctively I must have known such energy would be fruitless since there was no one around. I put the bleeding finger into my mouth and ran inside.

The wound continued to bleed after cleaning it and putting pressure on it. My husband returned from his trip around 2 and examined the damage. He confirmed my suspicion; while the wound was bad it wasn't the type that could be stitched. Essentially I trimmed some flesh from the finger. There was nothing to suture together. Bleeding continued into the night and I began to panic. Would the bleeding ever stop? Would I remain without a chunk of my finger? Would this pulsing pain running through my hand end?

The next day the bleeding stopped and by Sunday the wound started to scab over. There is some pain, it's difficult to type (I'm getting very familiar with the backspace key), and as my husband says, "It ain't pretty," but the finger is healing. And I'm humbled once again by the work my body does. Yes, healing is slower and less efficient than when I was younger, but this body still surprises me with its power. It's hard to think that it will not always be so.

I'm hesitant to finish deadheading the peonies. Perhaps I should let them heal their own bodies, let the dried petals paper the garden bed, let the stems scab over, let scars form to remember the painful blooms.